Etude Noir #2
The butler left me in the entryway: a high-ceilinged affair with a little chandelier so high up you had to crane your neck to notice it. Lots of dark wood and little tables that someone had bought to hold up some little trinket. Or, maybe they’d bought the trinket as an excuse for the table. Either way it felt both cluttered and impossibly open at the same time. This was a space that was not meant to be used. That I was standing here let me know the score.
I was still standing there ten minutes later when I hear someone coming down the stairs. I unslouched and held my hat in both hands, ready to greet this bag of money on legs that more than likely wanted me to tell him what he already knew about how his wife was fucking the pool boy and buying heroin on 32nd street.
Instead, I see this dame coming down the stairs, humming something that may or may not have been a tune, her golden hair pulled back slick against her head, and her mouth a bright red pout. She wore a silk cocktail dress, I guess. Though what would separate it from underwear is beyond me. She held a book in one hand, holding it up in front of her as she walked. Her other hand swung loosely at her side. I guessed she was a dancer. I knew she was trouble.
“Best watch where you’re going, love. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She glanced up from her book, game me a withering look, kept moving though the entryway, through a set of heavy doors and into a room that offered a quick glance of high shelves and reading lamps, house plants, and a well-shaped ass. And then she was gone.
I turned my hat in my hands and waited. Two more minutes, I decided. Then, I was out of there.
Right on cue, the same double doors opened and a man shambled out. He was in his mid-sixties, sickly, pale, a yellowed beard straggling from his chin. He was tall, and he looked like he had once been big, a powerful body, but now his skin seemed to hang on him. He turned his head slightly to one side when he looked at me, spoke out of the side of his mouth. Stroke.
“Mr. Silver,” he said, extending his hand.
“Please, call me Charlie.”
“John Wakefield,” he said, still pumping my hand.
“Well, Mr. Wakefield, what can I do for you?”
“Please, step into the library.”
We moved through into the cavernous room. There were two wing-back chairs arranged before the fire, and Wakefield moved toward them. I noticed a little ways off that my bookworm was curled into a chair, knees up, nose still in her book.
We sat. Wakefield talked. As I suspected, it was the wife. I half-listened, the blonde and her book just visible beyond Wakefield’s chair. It wasn’t long before I caught her eye. She looked up over the top of her book, batted her lashes at me, went back to reading.
Wakefield was going on and on, laying out all the evidence. What he needed me for I couldn’t imagine. I was there to seal the deal. With photos. The old man was crying now, just a tremble in the chin, really, but unmistakable, assuring me of his own devotion. The girl’s hand slipped slowly up her leg, pulling the hem of her dress up with it.
I knotted my brow and nodded gravely at Wakefield, my hands laced together under my chin like a priest accepting his confession. Beyond Wakefield, the girl’s hand had reached deep between her legs, vanished in deep shadow. I noticed that while she still held the book up, her eyes were closed.
Wakefield took a moment to collect himself, his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. I loosened my tie and shifted in my seat. Fact was, I was a bit uncomfortable, and it wasn’t just Wakefield’s emotional display.
Her hand was still working in that beautiful dark space between her legs, her shoulder moving in tight circles, and the strap of her dress slipped down along the smooth length of her upper arm. A hard pink nipple peeked just above the neckline.
I shifted again, my cock hard against my leg. Wakefield collected himself, dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. He looked stern now, like he’d worked through his grief and was ready to move on. I was kind of hoping he’d back up to the weepy stage because he was blocking my view of the blonde. I could see that she’d lifted her leg up and hung it over the arm of her chair, giving a much better view as she rubbed at her clit with two fingers.
“Could I get you a drink, Mr. Wakefield?” I said, rising.
“No, no,” he said, waving away the whole idea with a gnarled hand. “I’m fine, fine.”
I moved over beside his chair, placed a hand on his shoulder. The blonde was biting the cover of her book now, tit hanging out, pussy spread wide, fingers rubbing wildly. I squeezed the old man’s shoulder in solidarity.
“I’ll take care of everything, Mr. Wakefield. Don’t worry about a thing.”
The old man patted my hand and nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Silver. I really appreciate your time, and your discretion.”
She had her two middle fingers in her pussy now, thrusting them deep into herself, book pressed against her chest, head thrown to the side. My cock was painfully hard, and I wanted nothing more than to move it to one side, but Wakefied was attentive now, looking up into my face.
“Absolutely,” I said. “We can have this whole thing wrapped up by week’s end.”
The blonde arched her back, raising her ass up off of the chair, fingers slipping in and out of her pussy and up over her clit in a frantic motion. The book fell to the floor.
“Well, I’ll have Joseph write a check for the retainer.”
“That’ll be fine,” I said, not really hearing.
She stiffened, her hand frozen with two fingers deep inside her. Her other hand clutched at the chair’s arm, fingers clawed, knuckles white. She threw her head from side to side, biting at her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
“I’ll send Joseph around before closing time on Friday to pick up whatever you find.”
The blonde relaxed, melting into the chair, and slipped her fingers from her pussy. She met my eyes, dark lashes batting, and ran her tongue along the length of the fingers before sucking them both clean. She adjusted the strap onto her shoulder and pulled the hem of her dress down to her knees again.
“Actually, sir,” I said.
She bent over, eyes still locked on mine, tits all but falling out of her dress, and picked up her book. She stood, shot me the same disgusted look she’d greeted me with, and strode out of the room, hips swinging.
“Actually, if it’s all the same, I’d prefer to bring it by myself.”
I watched the door swing shut behind her and knelt down beside the old man, placing my hand over his.
“The personal touch is very important to me, Mr. Wakefield. Very important.”
“Very well. We’ll be expecting you, Mr. Silver.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wakefield. It’s been a pleasure. Truly.”
And I walked out of the library, through the foyer, and out of the massive entry doors, my cock still hard in my pants, hat pulled low over my eyes, and filled with a sudden urge to renew my library card.